I caught myself amid the mindless reverie of dinner preparations, the fennel bulb clutched in my left hand as I sent it down the mandoline a few more times. Thin ribbons piling up underneath the blade, I was captivated with musings of things to come. Your inevitable arrival. My heart buoyed and blossoming as the stock bubbled and reduced on the stove behind me.

I’d already baked the potatoes, mashed them and mixed in the flour, cheese, and seasonings. Rolled out the dough, cut and shaped the gnocchi in preparation. Small and delicate pillows of scrumptious delight.

The mandoline is placed on the counter as I grab hold a bowl with my right hand, cup my left and guide the mound of fennel into the bowl. It mingles with the thinly sliced shallot and celery leaf. Placing the bowl down, I take stock of the vinaigrette I’d prepared, a light cidery emulsification with the sort of hints you’d expect in a dish inviting you into the fall weather.

My phone buzzes and I see you are on your way. I can only hope you know the extent of which my heart leaps and seems to skip a beat at even just a text from you. Perhaps it’s just increasing in cadence as I quicken my paces amid the dinner prep, both are likely true. The knife dances atop the cutting board: mincing the garlic; julienning more shallots; a chiffonade of spinach.

The bottle of cab is at the ready as I hear you entering. The dog unable to restrain her excitement upon your arrival. I bask in the momentary envy and concern. Envious of the greeting she receives and the lingering wonder on my lack of showing such endearing adoration. Instead I grip the bottle tighter and pop into view, my ears pin ever so slightly back upon seeing you. The now familiar sensation blossoming within as I take you in. Like the smell of fresh baked bread, the crackle of a warm fire, or watching a sunrise from the beach; so it is each time you grace my presence. “Welcome home love, wine?”

I’m uncorking it as I watch you wrestle yourself from the clutches of the dog. Pouring it as you seem to float your way toward the kitchen. I offer you the first taste, “How was the traffic? Dinner should be ready in 5, 10 if you need a bit more time to get comfy.”

The aromas I create through my preparations are nothing to your aura. I could toss all this aside and feast on all that is you. But these endeavors are hardly for my sake. While I’ll openly admit to cherishing my time in the kitchen, all the acts within are in direct servitude to your grace and beauty. My muse, my goddess. Your hand cups my cheek and a pair of fingers trace down along my jawline and I melt like butter within a hot pan.

My body hardens as my insides turn to jelly. Oh, the ease of which you can twist me into knots. My cheeks warm under the lingering though of knots and you.

Thankfully, you leave me to my thoughts and I quickly return to dinner, setting a sauté pan onto the flame. The butter indeed melts slower than I but liquifies all the same. I drop the gnocchi into the boiling water and check the reduction of the stock before tossing the shallots into the pan. Garlic follows shortly after as I toss and stir.

I top off your wine and then pour myself a glass before I move back to the stove and throw in some ribbons of squash, asparagus tips, and morels. I watch as the tender vegetables steam and surrender to the heat. A far too familiar feeling washes over me as I anticipate your return.

I deglaze the pan with some stock, toss in the spinach, then pull the gnocchi from the water and let them finish in the sauté pan, the stock soaking into the ingredients or evaporating into the air. I add a few ounces of crème fraiche then kill the heat.

Pulling two plates from the cupboard, I place them down before you as you take a seat and handle that glass of wine. Such a silly thing, to openly envy an inanimate object. Focus

I dress the fennel, shallot, and greens and toss them lightly. Pause for a second to watch you take a sip and suit me with a smirk. I take the sauté pan and carefully but casually plate the gnocchi, just enough sauce left to drizzle over each plate. I adorn each plate with a handful of the fennel mix, top each then with a sprinkling of crushed candied pecans.

I take a moment and clean the mess enough to make the kitchen presentable before I place your plate before you. “Bon appetit.”

I come round the island and seat myself next to you. The plug making a rather profound pronouncement. You catch the ever-so-slight shift in my posture. That smirk emboldening exactly what we both crave.

I don’t need you to say anything, though I want to hear it, for you to tell me what a good boy I’ve been. You keep me waiting, hanging there in the air between us. I watch you turn and take your first forkful past your lips. I’m practically quivering. Fuck, it’s pathetic. But it’s not, this is how we both want me. How we want us.

My gift is my servitude. I want only to give it to you. And I know, not long after dinner, you’ll have me face down, ass up. The plug long since discarded.